


Work Hours

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: Concatenation Timestamps [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: But when isn't he, Cats, Couch Sex, Cuddling, Established Relationship, Fluff, Lots of Cats, M/M, Motorcycles, Oral, family matters, james is a bit of a butt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 14:17:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6054670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“It was an emergency,” James says instead, resting his hip against the desk and crossing his arms. “One of our children had an upset stomach this morning and I thought seeing his father after a trip to the vet would help matters.”</i>
</p><p>Cats will be cats, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Work Hours

"Quartermaster?"

Sheppard's voice carries, off stone walls and polished cement floors. She watches the man work, bent so deeply over his desk that it must be a strain on his neck to sit for so many hours unmoving that way. For a moment, she considers recommending yoga to him. It would do him good to de-stress and relax what surely must be a remarkable collection of trigger points in his back and shoulders. She decides against it, and when she's sure he hasn't heard her, she clears her throat, and chokes on the sound when he speaks suddenly.

"Yes, Ms. Sheppard? What is it?"

"You've a visitor," she manages, coughing into her fist.

"I don't."

She blinks, and turns slowly back to the main area of the workshop, then just as slowly back to Q. "You do," she says.

"I've nothing scheduled for this afternoon, and much as I enjoy your company, Josephine, I distinctly remember asking not to be disturbed," he says, finally looking up over the rim of his glasses. "Is it M?"

"No," she says, and the quartermaster returns to his work. Sheppard mouths a wincing apology to James as he approaches. "It's not M, it's -"

"Your husband," Bond says, smile widening as Q's hand slips and he curses.

Sheppard turns on her heel and makes her way back to her own desk again, stifling a smile behind her hand until she’s out of sight, where she turns to discreetly seek back with a glance at the two of them. James is in a leather jacket, tight over a grey sweater, jeans - _jeans_ \- and heavy boots. He holds a motorcycle helmet beneath one arm and a box in the other.

Q sighs, lifting his eyes, and tries to hide his pleasure at seeing James here.

“What could possibly be so important?” He asks, feigning displeasure. James sets his helmet to the table and the box to the floor and rests his hands to the desk as he leans over it to kiss Q before he can protest.

“I was in the neighbourhood.”

"Your flat is in the neighbourhood," Q chides him, but his attention betrays him, seeking happily between James' eyes, over the scruff that stubbles his jaw, across his lips, curving in amusement.

"Hardly the greeting I was hoping for. Don't I even get a kiss hello?"

"You just had one."

"I gave it to you."

"Does it make a difference?" Q laughs, exasperated, knowing before Bond can even lift a brow that yes, it does. He leans in and kisses him warmly, lips curved together for a long moment before he settles back to his seat and pushes it away from the desk to stand. He picks up an armful of paperwork, circling the desk towards the workshop. "I'm working," he reminds James, fighting down a smile. "And I'll remind you that you are in an area with a higher security clearance than you've been afforded."

“Rules can be bent.”

“They shouldn’t be,” Q replies, continuing on his valiant attempt to pass James without having him follow, without feeling his eyes on him and shivering at the sensation.

“It was an emergency,” James says instead, resting his hip against the desk and crossing his arms. “One of our children had an upset stomach this morning and I thought seeing his father after a trip to the vet would help matters.”

Q nearly drops his papers, turning to James with wide eyes. The other only raises a palm, soothing him.

“He’s fine. Peter ate a slug. Where he found it I couldn’t guess, but all is well.”

“Peter?” Q asks, voice cracking a little as he struggles to keep his papers together, held in a jumble now against his brown cardigan. “Is he alright?”

“Why is it that I think you’d have less reaction had I told you there was a housefire?”

“That would depend on if the cats were there,” Q says, his alarm in no way abated, though he does shrug a little. “And you, of course.”

“Secondary,” James replies, licking his lips and fighting a smile. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, two of your panic rooms are built for the cats.”

“You don’t need one. You’ve effectively mastered the art of escaping compromised structures. You’d probably have been the cause in the first place,” Q says, drawing a deep breath, pale. “Is he alright?”

“He’s fine,” James says. He reaches to take the papers from Q as they begin to slip, and though Q twists a little to avoid him, he doesn’t put up more fight than that. “I brought him to the veterinarian.”

“Oh, God,” Q whispers, wide-eyed.

“He was drooling a little and making those heaving sounds.”

“Oh no.” Pressing his fingers to his mouth, Q breathes out long against them, shaking his head. “He hates the veterinarian.”

“He wasn’t happy to be there, no,” James agrees, smiling a little when Q just makes a sound. He strokes his hair and gathers him close to hug. It amuses him, though he would never say it, that of all the things Q has seen and experienced, of all the things that have happened, with them together, with them apart, this is what pulls him into a panic.

“I wasn’t happy to be there, considering. But he’s fine. He’s been given strict bedrest, in which I’m sure he will be more than happy to partake. A few pills to help with his throat. No permanent damage.”

From behind him comes a soft little mew, questioning and little, and Q jerks in James’ arms at the sound.

“You brought him here?”

“Darling, you didn’t hear a word I said when I came in, did you?” James laughs. “I brought him to see you immediately after that awful endeavor, I figured he would appreciate the coddling.”

Q has overseen James on missions of impossible difficulty. Assignments in which failure would have lost thousands of lives, decimated cities, upset the entire infrastructure of whole countries. He has talked James through fixing highly technical prototypes without even a camera to watch what he was doing. He has navigated him through cities that Q himself will never see. For years and years, together, they have drawn each breath with gratitude in the awareness that their time together was borrowed.

And despite all of it, Q can hardly recall a moment in which he’s felt more sick with panic than this, as his gaze rests on the motorcycle helmet glinting from his desk.

“You put Peter - poor, sick Peter, traumatized from illness and the veterinarian - on the back of your bike?”

“He actually enjoyed the ride rather a lot,” James replies, tilting his head and stroking a curl from Q’s forehead. “He’s a bit doggish, that one, had his paws up on the little bars looking out.”

“He wanted to get out.”

“Certainly. He purred like an engine when I checked on him at the red lights, hand back to make sure he knew I was there. I think he’d rather be back on the bike than in here, unless you pay him some mind.”

Another mewl, plaintive and little, and Q watches as a little black paw slips through the bars, toes spread, and retreats again. His heart beats faster and James rubs his back, laughing against his hair. “May I please see Peter,” Q asks in a whisper, nearly toppling where he stands when James gently pulls away.

Peter clambers against him when he’s taken from the carrier, shoving his head against James’ cheek and purring at a resonant timbre. Q laughs so suddenly that he startles himself, and straightening his shoulders, fixing his glasses, he extends his arms primly. Peter’s little claws tug loops out of his cardigan sleeve where he mashes, and Q’s nose wrinkles in delight.

“Peter,” he exclaims lightly. “Naughty boy, did you eat a slug? Desmond is going to think very poorly of you for this, I hope you know. A slug, Peter! How very ghastly!”

The little cat continues to happily knead against Q’s arm, turning his head for nuzzles when Q ducks his head to breathe in the soft silky earthy smell of him. James just watches, delighted by the two of them as he always is. He will never admit that, having found Peter in a state earlier this morning, he had fallen into panic himself. He will never admit that he called the vet and considered calling the ambulance with the other phone at the same time. He will never admit that he fretted beyond words while Peter was being examined.

He will never admit it. Because he doesn’t like Peter, because he doesn’t like the cats, because he is a stoic British gentleman. He knows that Q will know anyway.

He hears a sound behind himself and turns, seeing Sheppard and another minion pressing their knuckles to their lips, watching the reunion between their bossy quartermaster and his feline companion. James just smiles, winks at them, and turns back to regard his husband and their cat again.

“I know,” Q says, in his one-sided and continuing conversation. “I know, it was very noisy, wasn’t it? First the terrible veterinarian, and then a motorbike, it’s dreadful.”

“She was very kind, actually.”

Q lifts his gaze, from beneath dark curls of hair and over his glasses. "I know what that tone means, 007."

"Just conversation, Q. I'm a married man now."

"Bloody well remember it, too," he snorts, before settling Peter higher on his chest, and sitting back against his desk. "Were you very well-behaved for James?"

"He ran from me, making horrible sounds, as soon as he saw the carrier."

"Well, wouldn't you be a bit out of sorts if you'd just eaten a slug?"

“I was out of sorts having heard him make that awful noise,” James points out, stepping closer to the two of them to stroke his fingers through Peter’s silken fur, just behind his ears.

“You worried about him,” Q says.

“Nonsense,” James sniffs. “Just didn’t want a messy incident on the floor.”

“You’re an awful liar.”

James just leans in and nuzzles his husband with a sigh, kissing the side of his face, just where the blush starts, as he continues to coddle and cuddle their wayward little feline. They are a strange family, but a happy one, all four of them. James sets his hands on either side of Q to rest on the desk and remains close, with the cat between them.

“Please don’t work late this evening,” James asks softly. “Let me pick you up at five and we can go get something for dinner together.”

Q closes his eyes for a moment, sheltered beneath James' arms where it's safe for him to smile and not try to hide the blush warming his cheeks. He tilts his head upward, nosing in a slow line against James' cheek, lips curving against his stubble. A deep breath fills him with citrus and sandalwood, leather and sweat. Peter's purr grows louder in the space between their bodies.

"How could I deny a hero his feast?" Q murmurs. "Especially after he saved our family from such a terrible emergency."

"It was a family emergency," muses Bond. "Distressing enough to work from home, perhaps, before the hero's banquet?"

Q's lips part when James' own graze against them. "On the back of your motorbike?" He whispers, drawing a deep breath, and then sighing it out all at once in a laugh. "You are mad, you know that?"

“I am terrible,” James agrees, kissing Q again and smiling. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes. But not on a motorbike.”

“I got our boy here safe,” James laughs. “And myself, as a secondary consideration.”

Q snorts and James runs a hand through his hair, hushes the cat between them whose purrs now take on little squeaking additions in his joy. 

“Silly boy, rest your throat.”

"Poor dear," murmurs Q. "I wish you could stay."

"No one's told me I can't," Bond says, amused. "Yet."

Q parts his lips with his tongue and laughs, shaking his head. "He cannot, because he'll get little cat hairs into all our circuitry. You cannot, because M will surely take it upon himself to reinforce your security clearances. And -"

"Family emergency," grins James.

"Will only go so far," finishes Q, nose wrinkling in pleasure as he's kissed by his husband, warm lips against his brow, and their cat, who pushes a warm nose against his chin.

"You'll forgive me, I hope -"

"You should hope I do for whatever you're about to admit."

"- for overhearing you tell the charming Ms. Sheppard that you've no meetings nor appointments for the rest of the day."

Q draws a breath and holds it, watching James above his glasses. He's greyed a little more since retirement, weathered features drawn a little deeper in their lines. It's as if his age held itself at bay until it was safe to let itself show, though Q knows the idea is absurd. And, lucky bastard, he's even more handsome for it.

Q loves the stubble. He loves the strands of silver threaded through blonde hair. He loves the revelation of his temples in a subtle receding of hairline, the snowy hairs infiltrating darker curls on his chest, the bit of a tummy that Bond's allowed himself to have - though only a small curve, and still enough that Bond squints at himself in the mirror over it each morning.

He's somehow even more wonderful in his retirement, and just as unlikely a creature as he ever was leaping from helicopters and taking cover from firefights.

"I'm not riding the motorbike," Q whispers again, a last desperate attempt to deny what he already knows to be inevitable.

“Yes you are, my love,” James tells him, kissing his forehead, and then his nose and then his lips as he extricates the little cat from Q’s arms and hushes him when he immediately sets to kneading James instead. He winks at Q. “Gather your things, darling, I’ll be right back.”

With wide stride and a deliberate turn of his hips, James carries their little cat to the two women who have been silently watching them, smiling when they make fussy sounds over the little creature who preens at the attention. They ask his name, they ask what happened, they coo over the little ball of fur that stretches and coils in James’ arms and refuses to be taken by anyone else.

It is soothing, strangely ridiculously soothing, to be so entirely domestic now. James gets bored, and when he does he fixes up the house. He rewires their old connections, he works on the plumbing. He’s retiled their bathrooms - both of them - and has set his eyes on the kitchen next. As promised, not a single bit of chrome to be seen on the rooms newly renovated.

He loves Q. He loves him beyond words. He kisses him when he comes home, he kisses him when he leaves in the morning. James is contented enough to allow himself to relax, to sleep and snore on the couch with the cats curled against him. He allows himself to drink less and savor tea more. He allows himself to live comfortably.

With murmured apologies and displeased whines from the now-large swarm of minions gathered around James, he returns their cat back to the carrier, apologizing to him when the door closes and little paws immediately seek out for him. He lets Peter grab his thumb, claws splaying around it to tug towards himself. Clucking softly, James frees himself again and straightens, watching the quartermaster mutter to himself as he sifts through his things.

It's a brief bustle, dropping off the now-messy pile of papers to someone in the workshop. A passing conversation with another minion, as Q surveys a set of diagrams. James watches him with enormous and unhurried pleasure, and no small sense of awe that a slight, funny little thing like Q - who gets faint over the thought of his cat eating something unfortunate - can in the same personage be so easy in his leadership here.

He's younger than most in MI6, and the youngest to hold his position. Those who have dared to disregard him - Bond included - have found out quickly how wrong in their assumptions they were. He is entirely capable. Devastatingly capable. Skilled in a way that a minute handful of people in the entire world could claim to be.

And when Q passes back by to get his coat and his computer, leveling a dire look upon him, James has never thought himself luckier than that he gets to know him in his entirety.

Except for all the other times he's had that thought, anyway.

"Ready?" James asks. Q snorts, shouldering into his static-grey tweed overcoat.

"No. I'm really not."

James smiles and bends to take up Peter, passing the box to Q so he feels he’s doing something deliberately and specifically important to take his mind off of the motorbike ride that inevitably awaits him. He takes his helmet and sends a salute to Sheppard as the two of them pass her office.

Outside, James stops by the bike and reaches into the large compartment beneath the seat for a spare helmet, which he passes triumphantly to Q. Q doesn’t take it. Rather, he frowns at James and blushes as the older man sets the helmet down and takes the carry instead, fastening it to the back of the bike.

“All you have to do,” James tells him, “is cling. Hard. The rest is up to me.”

“I can’t believe you did this,” Q says, aghast as his cat is bound by bloody tie-downs to the back of a motorbike. “I genuinely cannot, and considering the amount of truly shocking decisions I’ve witnessed you make in your life, that’s really saying something.”

“And he was fine, wasn’t he?”

“I’m not particularly comforted by the past tense, 007.”

“He will be fine,” James says, pressing both hands to Q’s cheeks and sighing, with a smile in his eyes. “He was and will be, as you will be in turn. Have you forgotten already that I’m very good at driving motorcycles?”

“I’ve seen the footage from Istanbul. Rooftops, moving trains,” Q says, dry. “Fantastically safe. I’m completely convinced.”

“Then London should be a piece of pie, in compare,” James replies, setting the helmet over Q’s head and kissing against the plastic with a smile. He guides him to get onto the machine and climbs on in front of him, kicking back the little beam that kept the bike balanced and bouncing gently to get the feeling of the new weight on his bike again.

“Hold on,” he tells Q, turning back to him, voice muffled through the helmet. “Lean with me. Trust me.”

“I hate you.”

James laughs and revs the engine, setting off slowly and then gathering speed to keep up with traffic. He doesn’t speed as he usually would, keeping both Peter and Q in mind as he drives them home. He feels Q squeeze tight at every turn, through every junction. He knows that beneath the helmet Q’s eyes will be closed tight and he will be muttering curse after curse.

He is lovely. He is braver than he knows.

Q was told to cling and so he does, so hard his hands ache from it. Arms around James and fingers snared against his shirt beneath his jacket, Q buries his face between Bond's shoulders and mutters, lost to the wind, that he doesn't hate him at all. He tells him, unheard, that he loves him very much. Not at the moment, of course, but it would be terrible to think that the last words from Q's lips before he becomes a smear across the tarmac were that he hates him.

He peeks over his shoulder at a red light to ensure the crate is still there, and snaps back tight against James' back when the bike moves again.

Just as he knows James won't admit how he fretted over Peter, Q won't admit that the ride is a little thrilling. More than a little, really, considering the depth of his familiarity with Bond's prowess on motorbikes in the field. The wind rushes loud against his helmet, coat smacking against his legs as they hum along homeward. The engine beneath them rumbles in a way that betrays its power, capable of going far, far faster than Bond is now, even as he weaves neatly through traffic.

And James against him, beneath him, body firm where Q's fingers splay against his sides, arms snared tight. Q breathes in deeply and settles a little closer, their thighs pressed close, his chest to Bond's back. Beneath the exhaust, he can smell the leather of Bond's jacket, warm and intoxicating.

"Enjoying yourself?" Bond calls back at another light, as Q tries desperately to deny that James can surely feel the twitching between Q's legs.

"Piss off," he says, making sure this utterance is loud enough for James to hear.

James laughs, knowing, and revs the engine a few times before continuing home, a little faster, now, a little less careful - though hardly careless. He can feel how tightly Q holds him, can feel how his fingers knead against his stomach in fretful need to keep moving. He knows that once they’re home the panic will turn to adrenaline, energy with no outlet until their lips meet.

It is delightful.

James pulls into their driveway and parks the bike at an angle before the garage door. Killing the engine and setting the stand, he pulls his helmet off and turns to look at Q with a grin.

“Look at you, brave boy, made it home safe.”

"Peter is very brave," Q agrees primly, fumbling with the fastening on his helmet, fingers shaking a little.

Gently, James reaches and unlatches it for him, delighted when Q's hair splays wild once it's removed. Q nearly stumbles as he slides free of the bike, trying to kick neither Bond nor Peter's carrier, and dizzy, too. He can still feel the vibrations of tarmac and engine against his thighs. He's still got a tug of excitement in the pit of his belly, too, and seeing James cocky and beautiful on his bike does little to help it.

"Please free Peter," Q asks, forcing his voice to steady. "I will unlock the house. I'm sure that Desmond is terribly concerned with where his brother's been."

James inclines his head and watches Q stumble a little on his way to the house, working on the myriad locks and alarms before he opens the door and immediately ducks down to catch the fluffy little grey creature that seeks him out.

James can hear him talking to Desmond, asking about his day, reassuring him that everyone is safe and home, as he works the carrier free. He carries into the house, talking to Peter in turn as the little cat bats at him through the bars. Once inside, James closes the door with his foot and releases the inky little feline into the house.

Desmond comes near to nuzzle him, smell the strange outside smells on him before pressing his face against Peter’s to share their scent again.

“Silly boys,” James sighs, reaching into his pocket for the little pills given him by the vet for Peter, should he need them. “Home and safe again. I’m sure they will chatter quite loudly and for many hours about Peter’s scary big adventure.”

“Two motorbike rides, a visit to Q Division, snuggles from engineers, an undoubtedly harrowing time at the veterinarian’s office, and a slug,” Q says, settling his hands to his hips. He shakes his head like an exasperated parent, entirely fond, as he watches the cats scuffle and play. “A slug, Peter. Honestly.”

“And you,” James says, stealing Q’s breath with the whisper across his ear and the hands flat against his stomach as Bond presses against him from behind. “You liked it.” Q draws a littler breath than the one before to argue this, but Bond hushes him with lips against his throat. “You know exactly what I mean, quartermaster.”

“Understandable, really. A natural response to certain stimulation,” Q whispers, forcing his breath to leave him slowly. “Vibrations of the machinery itself eliciting a reflex response. Adrenaline brought on by doing something tremendously dangerous.” He licks his bottom lip into his mouth and holds it as he squirms in James’ arms, turning to face him. “You, bent over and warm beneath me,” he murmurs, before snaring his husband into a rough kiss.

James hums and closes his eyes as he kisses Q back, setting his hands on the slighter man’s shoulders even as he walks back with every push of Q’s demanding hands against him. 

They make it to the couch.

The couch will do.

“I’ve got you playing hookie a lot lately,” James purrs, delighted. He arches up and out of his jacket as Q unzips it and slips cold hands beneath his jumper next. “Turning you into a terrible truant on my behalf.”

Q tilts Bond’s voice to a moan with a firm suck against the underside of his jaw, tongue rasping against stiff stubble, lips curving hard as he draws back just enough to watch James’ skin redden. He bends his body against him as he leans down to leave another mark just beside it, working towards his ear, whispering between noisy suckling kisses.

“You’re a terrible influence, 007. We’ve always known that. It’s what made you so damnably good at your job and it’s the reason you’ve turned me into a work-skipping, motorcycle-riding miscreant.”

“Thank God,” laughs James, until Q quiets him with a kiss smeared moaning against his mouth. His hips shove downward, trusting firm enough to feel the fly of James’ jeans against his cock. Strong fingers fist in his hair, straightening curls made wild by the wind of their ride home. When there’s enough of a tug for Q to relent and give them both a chance to breathe, Q gently shakes his head.

“You saved Peter’s life,” he whispers, voice just as rough with need as it was when he described James bent over beneath him.

“Much as I appreciate the laudation, darling, it was only a slug.”

“He could have died.”

“It’s very unlikely,” laughs James, but Q merely bites his lip and whimpers, thrusting down against his husband again.

“I’m going to draw you a bath. Put dinner on while you soak. I am going to make your vodka cocktail for you.” Another little shake of his head, eyes so wide with want they’re nearly black instead of blue. “But first...”

“First,” James tells him, stroking his hands down Q’s back, smiling when he arches like a cat into the touch. “First you will take off this adorable cardigan. The shirt beneath. And then I will be able to kiss my adoration against your skin, because I missed you today.”

Q laughs and rocks his hips insistently against James’ again.

“Then,” James continues, pushing to sit up and hold Q against him, nipping his bottom lip when he presses close to kiss again. “I will sit you on this bloody sofa, legs akimbo, and suck you off.” Q makes a sound and James grins. “Then you’ll join me in the bath, since you’ll be just a little bit filthy.”

Q trembles when he’s pulled close again, hardly kissing now so much as letting himself be kissed. He tilts his head to the side, guiding James in little squirms and shifts of movement to his neck, and running fingers through his hair. He’d planned on having his way with James so hard he left him with an attractive limp and a flinch when he sat down for supper, but Q’s hardly one to complain about being adored in this way, by this man. This incredible man.

This crushingly handsome, frustratingly charming, bloody wonderful man who saved their cat’s life today, no matter what he says to the contrary.

“Down,” Q says, shivering as James’ hooded gaze lifts immediately at the tone. The Voice. The one that brooks no argument and causes James’ cock to twitch in response between Q’s parted thighs. Arching a brow, he waits for Bond to run his hands down and off his body, lips parted as Q settles to straddle him firmly.

Slender fingers follow the front of his cardigan, smoothing it flat from shoulders to chest to belly. Q begins at the bottom, head ducked but eyes raising now and again as a button slides free. One after the next after the next, until with a sinuous movement, he shoulders it off and drops it to the floor.

Peter pounces on it, and even as Q tries not to notice, he’s relieved to see the little black cat’s bold spirits back after what will undoubtedly be known forevermore as The Slug Incident.

His attention snaps back quickly as James’ hands lift. Q needn’t say a word for James to lower them again, but he does anyway, dropping his voice and grasping his tie to loosen it. “Hold position, 007, until my order.”

“Quartermaster,” James replies, low and deliberate, setting his hands slightly behind himself for balance. He remains otherwise entirely open, sweater wrinkled up over his stomach to reveal it partially, where Q’s hands had pressed just moments before, cock hard in his pants, though they remain closed. He watches.

The tie is slipped slick from around Q’s neck and let drop to the floor. James knows it’s one of his, he doesn’t even have to check. It delights him when Q wears his clothes. His cardigans that appear on the quartermaster to be enormous, his jumpers, his ties and underwear, sometimes. He is lovely, little thief that he is. A tease in every way.

James closes his eyes just briefly when Q bares his chest before him. He is close enough to feel the heat from his skin, to smell the warm clean scent of his partner. But still he doesn’t move, as used to following orders from Q at home as he was in the field. He does part his lips with his tongue, though, a gentle click to accompany the movement, and he does open his eyes again.

Q splays his fingers firm against Bond’s bared belly. Pressing down, he bends himself to push back against the thick ridge of his husband’s cock beneath him. A curve forward drags their lengths together again. Messy-haired and sultry-eyed, the hint of a smile playing against lips reddened by James’ scruff, Q has given up the initial discomfort with being seen this way that troubled him so much in their first months together. Whether or not he thinks himself attractive hardly matters; Bond’s attraction is undoubtable, and counts far, far more.

Another stroke parts James’ lips wider, cock throbbing in the constraints of his jeans.

Another stroke lilts Q’s breath upward into a sweet little sound.

“Ready, 007?” He asks, curling his fingers against the earpiece of his glasses to toss them to the floor. Peter bats at them.

“Ready when you are, quartermaster,” comes James’ reply, so close to feral in its roughness that Q’s skin prickles.

A beat. A breath. An order.

“Now, Bond.”

The first touch comes as a demanding, near-biting suckle against Q’s nipple. James keeps his hands down, still, told only that he can go along with his plan of action, not that he could use them to help. He takes his time devouring this particular ravishing part of Q’s body before kissing with softer presses to the other side of his chest and adoring him similarly there as well.

He can feel Q grow harder against him, he shifts his own legs wider apart to feel him press closer. James noses against the hairless chest before him and licks gentle, tickling licks against him until Q laughs, and James lifts his eyes, smiling.

Q tilts his cheek against his shoulder, a movement that James would think deliberately coy if he didn’t know the man so well as to know that the little nuzzle is entirely genuine. Q’s fingers spread through his hair and grasp, pressing him close again, dragging him upward to his throat. Head tilted back, Q moans wanton when Bond suckles as hard against his skin as Q had to him.

Turnabout is fair play and all.

“Hands, 007,” Q whispers, biting his lip in a whimper before he adds. “Do try and keep up.”

James hums, eyes closed and lips closing, hands settling wide and warm against Q’s sides, sliding down to spread over his hips before stroking up again to just beneath his arms. He doesn’t tickle, not now, he holds Q close and kisses his love against him. His fingers walk over goosepimpled skin to settle over Q’s shoulders, pushing him down as James rocks up and lifts his eyes to look at Q again.

“With you? I never could,” he smiles. “I merely attempt.”

Q curls his hand against the back of James’ head, ducking his own to sweep a kiss across his cheekbone. Across the corner of his eye. Across his temple. Another slow, firm thrust strokes a sound from the both.

“That’s why I always tell you ‘try’,” Q whispers against his ear.

The embers stoke hot and Q grins for only a moment before he’s pressed back against the couch. Laughing as he’s kissed, mouth and face and throat and chest. Laughing as James works his way furiously downward, lips and teeth and tongue. He arches upward when Bond pulls down his trousers and pants at once without even unfastening them, and bares his cock bouncing against his belly.

“Oh,” Q moans, hand splayed across his face, stomach twitching when James nips the curve of his hip. “Oh, well done, 007.”

James laughs, pressing hot kisses in a wide arc from one sharp hip, to the thatch of hair between Q’s legs, to the other hip, nosing against sensitive skin until Q whines with need. James works his fingers against the button of his trousers at least to draw them lower, and then takes Q into his mouth, immediately deep, immediately hot and sucking hard to feel him twitch against his tongue.

This, James could do for hours.

One of Q’s legs draws up against the couch, toe pointed downwards, the other seeks over James’ shoulder and slips down, stretched on the floor instead as James continues to suck him. He pulls his own hair now, dark curls flopped around his fingers as he bends back, shoulders shoved to the cushions. A wet noise from Bond’s hard suckle jerks Q’s hips higher and the movement tightens his belly, until he’s bridged his back upward from the couch.

Suspended, held in sheer delight, by Bond’s affections.

His husband, now. His agent, always.

Q presses deeper, watching Bond’s lips bend against his skin. Sleepy-eyed even in his passion, a glance upward of pale blue eyes tightens Q’s fingers harder in his hair. He can hardly breathe, sides already heaving. His cock jerks sensitive with every stroke of tongue, every hollowing of cheeks, every brush of the tip of it against the back of James’ mouth.

It takes very little for Q to come of his own accord. It takes far less when James is in a mood like this.

Or any mood. Or any position. Any configuration of their bodies or so much as the sheer thought of him clenches Q’s throat and stiffens him to dripping. He’s hopeless for him, he has been since they first met and he swore he wasn’t. He said he loathed him, reviled him, that for all his talent as an agent he was little good for anything else.

Q still says he hates him now and again.

He never means it. He never has.

“Bond,” he whispers, clearing the name from his lips with a flick of his tongue, though it’s his name now too. “James,” he begs instead. “Slow down.”

James does, pulling back and parting his lips wet to press just against the head of Q’s cock, not sucking, not tugging, just holding, as he catches his own breath and lifts his eyes to his quartermaster.

He loves him so much he aches.

He waits, now, stroking slowly over his stomach, soothing the flickering tension there, over his thigh to ease it from standing so taut.

“Anything,” he breathes, allowing Q’s cock to catch against his bottom lip when he speaks, grinning when it sends a full-body shudder through his husband. “Anything you say.”

Q makes a fussy sound, fighting down a smile. For a moment they are quiet, merely finding their breath again and easing it, allowing the heat of their bodies to cool just a little. Q lowers back to the couch, James’ hands beneath as he does, and he rubs his arm over his eyes. If he looks at James now, he’ll lose it. If he thinks of where the warmth cooling spit against his erection has come from, he’ll lose it. Even the thought of trying not to think of it pulls a ripple of tension through him, cock lifting from where it curves hard against belly.

He grins as a line of pressure tickles against the bottom ridge, from thick curls of hair over full veins, up to where his foreskin joins the head of his cock in a sensitive little bridge of skin.

“007,” he whispers in gentle warning, dampening his lips with his tongue. “Careful, now.”

Slowly, James follows his cock from base to head again, with the very tip of his tongue.

“Bond,” Q murmurs, shaking his head, helpless. “I’m going to - I’ll - I’m going to need you to hold back.”

James kisses against Q’s thigh and sits up higher to look at him, setting his hands to Q’s knees and levering himself up until he can kiss him properly, languid and slow. His toes push against the carpet, his own legs spread, cock pushing against the crotch of his pants.

“I suppose it can’t be fair to just have you filthy for our bath,” he murmurs, nosing against his cheek and kissing there next. He drops one hand between his legs and works the button and fly open, panting pleasure against Q’s lips when he ducks his head to watch. “I’m going to ride you, I think.”

“That’s -” Q can’t even finish the sentence for laughing softly as he peeks again at James’ cock bared thick between them. “That’s unadvisable,” he finally manages. “You’ll blow the whole mission.”

“I thought I just did.”

“James,” whines Q, laughing again, but with less certainty this time. It’s a quicker sound, breathless and eager, too eager always when it comes to this. “007,” he tries, but James simply clucks his tongue as he sheds his jeans and pants and kicks them to the floor.

“Not going to work this time, Q. I’ve got to do this.”

“007,” Q tries again, anyway, “it is imperative that you follow my orders.”

Bond tugs his socks off and fully bared, draws up one knee beside his husband, than the other. A caress to Q’s hair finds his wrist snared, and with a dark-eyed determination, Q brings James’ fingers between his lips. He sucks the fore and middle fingers deep, lips pinkening and swelling as he sucks, wetting them.

Q’s instructions have always been very clear.

James parts his lips in sympathy as he watches Q suck, bringing his free hand up to gently pinch against a nipple until Q moans and catches his other wrist too, to stop him.

“Terrible.”

 

“Impatient,” Q whispers back when he releases James’ fingers back to him. James grins, shifting his legs wider and arching his back as he slips his hand behind himself to circle his hole. He keeps his eyes on Q’s the entire time. They hood gently when he presses a fingertip in, then another. He allows his breathing to grow heavier, his lips to part, a moan to escape him as he curls his fingers and strokes his prostate, over and over to tease himself to the point of desperation Q is at beneath him, cock curled and leaking clear.

“You look so bloody gorgeous like this.”

“Half-dressed?”

“Yes,” James grins, dropping his hand to take Q against his palm.

“Disheveled?”

“Absolutely yes.” He guides Q back and bites his lip as he presses the blunt head of his cock against himself and sighs out, sinking back.

Q’s lips part breathless, wordless, absolutely silent in rapt pleasure and damn near motionless but for the gentle push upward into the heat and pressure of James’ body. Squeezing tight, tugging in slow twitches, Q’s heart jerks in time to the pull of his husband’s hole around him, slowly easing past the head, down his shaft, further and further until Q is buried within.

James holds his jaw taut when Q is inside him. His brows crease in the middle. His bottom lip slackens. Q knows these little expressions, minute revelations of the pleasure that in greater form holds his fit body firm in curves of taut muscle. He knows them and he loves them, every time struck with wonder that this man would choose him, would love him, would want this with him and so much more besides.

“God,” Q breathes, setting trembling hands to James’ thighs. “You’re beautiful.”

James laughs, breathless, and ducks his head again, folding himself forward to hold Q’s face in his hands as he kisses him. He shifts only slightly, gentle shallow pushes against Q before he pulls off of him and sinks back down again with a groan.

He keeps it slow, anything faster and they will both come too quickly. This teases them along the edge of pleasure as sweat pulls up against their skin and their breathing hitches.

James guides Q’s hands to settle against his back and rocks on top of him, dropping one hand to stroke himself as he does.

“I love you,” he sighs, turning a sloppy kiss against Q’s cheek.

 

“Sap,” Q whispers, before catching him in a humming kiss.

He rises when Bond lowers himself, he thrusts hard to meet his movements. He settles when James draws slowly away from him, and moans against his mouth. They clasp their fingers together where James presses his to Q’s cheek. Q snares Bond’s bottom lip between his own and suckles it until James moans.

Every movement is synchronized, in the way they’ve always been. They negotiate for pleasure; they bicker for fun. But rarely have they ever been truly at odds, and never in the language their bodies speak to the other. Q knows when he should reach to fold his fingers over James’ own, not to stroke his cock for him but to guide his steady tugging. James knows when he has to slow the penetration of his own body because Q’s orgasm is - always - so precariously close.

“007,” Q finally sighs, when his belly aches and James’ cock is leaking, when they’ve run out of breath but they’re slick with sweat. “Proceed as you will.”

“You’re a right bossy bastard,” James whispers, shivering as Q touches him again, shivering as he pushes up and loses himself just before Bond does, knowing each other’s bodies so well now that they can time it, hone it, tease and play and work with it until neither can breathe anymore and both lose their pleasure to the other.

James snares his arms around Q’s shoulders and lets himself go entirely, shuddering and pulsing slick against Q’s stomach, clenching around him in turn to feel him empty himself within James.

It’s all a right mess, really.

James laughs, pleased and low against Q’s ear, and kisses his jaw, stroking his large hands up and down slight heaving sides as Q catches his breath.

Q holds him close, little mind in the moment for mess. He wants only to feel James' lips against his own, his heartbeat against his own, pulses linked as much as the thoughts that draw them apart in the same breath with a helpless laugh. They're like schoolboys, still. Fascinated anew every time with what their bodies can do. Rapt in recognition that their pleasure can bring pleasure to another, even greater than their own. Q looks between Bond's eyes and his smile spreads wide. It splits to a grin as he grasps him hard and pulls him close, smearing slick between them.

"I love you," Q murmurs against his throat.

"Sap," Bond murmurs, and Q just grins.

"You saved him, you know."

James hums and touches kisses against Q's cheek.

"But I have to ask," Q laughs, brows knit. "How did you know it was a slug?"

With a deep breath, James sighs and sprawls atop his husband. His partner. Friend and quartermaster and so much more. His thighs slick as Q's cock slides free, but for the moment, neither mind.

"Honestly?" James asks.

"Honestly," Q answers, wary.

"I found the other half of it. Do you want to see?"

Q inhales hard. He holds it. And all at once he exhales and laughs so hard he curls against Bond above him, delight buried in snorts against his shoulder.

"No," he finally manages. "Please, no."

“We should commemorate this day,” James insists as Q continues to squirm and laugh. “As the day one of our cats decided to test his skills against an invertebrate.”

“James, do not get the damn slug,” Q tells him, scolds him, and his agent presses close to him instead, kissing against his cheek and sighing against his ear.

“Perhaps after the bath, then,” James says, smiling when Q grins and shakes his head. “A bath you were going to draw for me, I believe.”

“Was I?”

“Yes,” James kisses him softly. “While I made you a drink and started on dinner.”

“It’s 3:30,”

“Lots of time then,” James smiles, “to fit in everything.”


End file.
